


3, 2, 1 Boom

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bombs, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Extended Scene, I'm Bad At Titles, Kissing, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining John, Rating May Change, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Tags Are Hard, changed scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-08 18:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12260046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: There’s stuff that you wanted to say ... but didn’t say it.Yeah.Say it now...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to rewrite a scene for a while (as well as a full series but that's for another time) and this one was high on my list.  
> The train carriage bomb in The Empty Hearse  
> I used a transcript, which you can find [here](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64895.html)
> 
> Not sure how many chapters this will be, maybe two. I'd appreciate some feedback for it!  
> It's been really difficult for me to write solo stories for a long time now. My Muse seems to have withered and died in a hole somewhere, and the horrid, cold, rigid arms of Real life and it's stresses have been squeezing the joy out of me bit by bit...
> 
> A lot of this is used straight from the show, the transcript, I merely changed a few things and added others.

“It’s empty. There’s _nothing_.”

“Isn’t there?”

John turned back with intrigue and directed his torch towards Sherlock, towards where he was lightly lifting the cushion of one of the seats and reclining to shine his light underneath. Sherlock raised his head and looked round at him, eyes alight and shifting. John had seen the look before. It made him suddenly uneasy. Both because of the rush of emotions, of memories, but also because Sherlock seemed to have found something crucial and sometimes that wasn’t exactly good. Especially in this case.

“ _This_ is the bomb,” Sherlock said lowly.

John frowned, “What?”

Straightening up, Sherlock pushed the cushion all the way up, exposing a hollow space beneath, which was flooded with wired-up explosives, “It’s not carrying explosives. The whole compartment _is_ the bomb.”

Glancing around, John worked his way along the train carriage with Sherlock, lifting up other cushions, some of them in order, others at random. Each one of them had an identical explosive device under it. With a breath through his nose, Sherlock looked around and moved away, taking a few steps down the aisle with a slant of his head, while John continued lifting the seat cushions in nervous panic, unable to stop. It was really dawning on him what was happening, what he’d just climbed onto, what he was stuck on. Bombs. Why was it bombs? He’d had enough of them.

Hearing a slight sound and catching movement in the corner of his eyes, John looked over just as Sherlock began lifting a panel up from the floor of the carriage, his hands bare, fingers curling around the edge. It must have been loose. Which wasn’t good. Not at all. John moved over and peered down into the hole below the moved panel to see the centre of the bomb, the heart. It was massive and intimating, and John wished Sherlock hadn’t found the blasted thing because now it was more real, more nerve-wracking, more life threatening. Taking several deep, nervous, breaths, John stared down at it with Sherlock, and then looked up at him.

“We need bomb disposal,” he said as casually and calmly as he could manage.

Sherlock squinted at the bomb, searching, inspecting, and thinking, “There may not be time for that now.”

“So what do we do?”

Pausing briefly, Sherlock took a breath, held it, and then spoke, “I have no idea.”

“Well, _think_ of something,” John replied sternly.

“Why do you think _I_ know what to do?”

“Because you’re _Sherlock Holmes_! You’re as clever as it gets.”

“Doesn’t mean I know how to defuse a giant _bomb_ ,” Sherlock retorted. “What about you?”

John glowered, feeling his face heat, his temples throb, and his stomach drop, “I wasn’t in bomb disposal. I’m a bloody _doctor_!”

Angrily turning his torch at him in response, Sherlock lifted his eyebrows, “And a _soldier_ , as you keep reminding us all.”

Breathing out roughly through his nose, John looked down at the bomb again, running his gaze over what looked like a digital clock, which was currently frozen at 2:30, “Can’t...can’t we rip the timer off, or something?”

“That would set it off.”

“You see? You _know_ things,” John countered pointedly, watching the man turn away and sigh.

Great. Fantastic. What were they going to do? How was it too late? Was it too late? God it probably was. They were inside a bomb carriage together and they couldn’t leave it, they had to stop it, that’s why they were there. John knew nothing about bombs, all he did know was that he’d seen someone after they’d been blown up by one, he’d been wrapped in some, and now he was inside of one. This case was ridiculous. Almost cliché. Why did people have to be so stupid?

All of a sudden, all the lights came on around them, the clock on the bomb at their feet abruptly coming to life, ticking down, and John was sure he felt his heart stop for a moment. Looking around with Sherlock, John groaned with a rush of fear, of cold dread. Why did it have to be a bomb? He’d known it was. Obviously. But why did it have to be a bomb?

Sherlock, equally as frazzled by the looks of it, became twitchy, “Uh...”

“My God,” John breathed. He felt constricted. Could hardly catch his breath. Bloody bombs!

Pacing away from John, Sherlock continued to panic, “Uh...”

“Why didn’t you call the police?” John said through a tight throat.

“ _Please_ just...”

Abruptly furious, John glared, “Why do you _never_ call the police?”

“Well, it’s no use now!”

2:15. God what were they going to do?

“So you can’t switch the bomb off. You _can’t_ switch the bomb off and you _didn’t_ call the police,” John said angrily, turning away for a second, for several seconds, before turning back to Sherlock, looking at him. Sherlock returned the look, locked eyes with him, and John hated what he saw in his gaze.

“Go, John,” he said, directing him from the carriage with his hand. Why was he always so dramatic? “Go _now_.”

“There’s no point _now_ , is there, because there’s not enough time to get away; and if we don’t do _this_ ,” he said, gesturing down to the bomb at his feet, at the ticking clock, at the thing that would kill them, kill others, “other people will die!”

1:57 now. John stared at it, glared at it, and then pointed at Sherlock, “Mind Palace.”

“Hmm?”

“Use your Mind Palace.”

Sherlock frowned, “ _How_ will that help?”

Angry again, John clenched his jaw, flexed his fingers, “You’ve salted away every fact under the sun!”

“Oh, and you think I’ve just got ‘How To Defuse A Bomb’ tucked away in there somewhere?” Sherlock retorted sarcastically with a faint sneer.

“ _Yes_!”

Thinking about it for a second, Sherlock shifted his head, “Maybe,” he murmured, bringing his fingers to his temples and screwing his eyes shut.

John nodded faintly, “Think,” he told him, still wound up, still unable to breathe properly. Sherlock tilted his head up a little, still thinking, still searching, and John softened his tone as he looked at his face, at the face he thought he’d never see again. “Think. Please think.” Sherlock groaned under his breath, brow creasing in the way it always used to do. “ _Think_!”

Sherlock’s hands abruptly move aside to flail, eyes still tightly closed, and he continued to make groaning noises, twitching every so often. John closed his own eyes, shaking his head in sorrow, in annoyance, in heartbreak, as the noises go louder. Finally Sherlock let out a loud exclamation and opened his eyes again, wide and lost. Breathing heavily for a moment, Sherlock then lowered his hands and turned a blank, but apologetic, expression toward John, and John can only stare at him in disbelief. This was it then? Why was it always bombs?

“Oh my God,” John whispered, voice wavering a little. One again he was facing death. Facing Sherlock’s death. Why was the latter so much more painful? Sherlock, after pulling his scarf from around his neck, doubled over, burying his head in his hands, still trying to think, to focus, to search and find something, anything, and groaning incoherently. As Sherlock dropped to his knees next to the bomb John turned and wandered slightly down the carriage, unable to watch. “This is it...”

“Um, er...” Sherlock sounded overcome and shaken, and John could hear him fumbling at the bomb.

Stopping after another few paces, John took a hitching breath, staring into the middle distance, “Oh my God...” he whispered softly.

Sherlock was still fumbling and tapping at the bomb, mumbling vaguely, “Turn that _off_. Oh God! Uh, um, er...”

1:29. John didn’t have to see it to know. Was this really it?

Turning back toward Sherlock, John swallowed as the man lifted his head, “I’m sorry,” he said softly, making John’s stomach clench and twist. It seemed odd, almost out of place, as ludicrous as that seemed.

Clenching his eyes shut briefly, John took a deep inhale and then looked at Sherlock again, “What?”

As Sherlock retained their eye contact, his began to fill with tears, glistening under the lights, “I can’t... I can’t do it, John. I don’t know how,” he replied, straightening up on his knees. “Forgive me?”

“ _What_?” John hissed through his teeth, voice tight and enraged.

Sherlock brought his hands up and together, as if praying, begging, “ _Please_ , John, forgive me... for all the hurt that I caused you.”

Waving a finger at him, John felt his body tense up, “ _No_. No, no, no, no, no. This is a trick.”

“No,” Sherlock replied gently.

“Another one of your _bloody_ tricks!”

“No.”

“You’re just trying to make me say something nice,” John insisted.

Sherlock chuckled shortly, “Not this time.”

“It’s just to make you look good even though you behaved like...” trailing off, John grimaced, holding back the burning, hot, onset of tears. Turning around John took steadying breaths, trying to compose himself, and reached to grip at one of the handrails, staring down at the floor. Every emotion, every flush of rage, of hurt, of clogging sadness, drowned him in a wave and he stomped his foot to expel some of the tension. Keeping his voice low, knowing he’d sound as overcome and angry as he felt, John changed the subject. “I wanted you not to be dead.”

Sherlock scoffed lightly, “Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for.” When John sighed tersely, Sherlock continued. “If I hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t be standing there and...” John grit his teeth, baring them as he did so, and turned away with a shake of his head. “... you’d still have a future... with Mary.”

John span around and pointed, “Yeah. I _know_.” Grimacing, he turned away again, taking a long moment, listening to the rustle of Sherlock movements and wet breathing, and then twisted back, keeping his voice low. “Look, I find it difficult.” Sherlock nodded, his head lowered. “I find it difficult, this sort of stuff.”

Glancing up at him, Sherlock swallowed, “I know.”

Exhaling loudly, roughly, John dropped his gaze, his head, and then dug deep to ease out what he’d locked away, to bring forward the words he’d said to the grave, that he’d meant with every fibre of his being, and straightened up, “You were the _best_ and the _wisest_ man...” he whispered, sniffing, “... that I have _ever_ known.” Gazing at John with wide, watery eyes, Sherlock remained silent as John gathered more courage, brought forward more words, words unsaid, words kept back, and lowered his head to breathe deep before he raised it once more. “Yes, of _course_ I forgive you...”

Sherlock stared at him and John met his eyes for a moment, inhaling through his nose, closing his eyes, bracing for death, and finishing what he started, letting the words he’d wanted to say for years, that he should have said, tumble from his mouth, “I _love_ you.”

There was an awkward, thick pause, and then Sherlock choked on his answering word, “What?”

“You heard me.”

“...I...”

Peering through his lashes at Sherlock’s frozen expression of shock, John twitched, clenching his fingers, his jaw, “What?”

“ _What_?”

“Oh come off it, Sherlock,” John snapped, jittery and unsure, chest aching. “You don’t believe me? - Fine. _Fine_. I’ll show you, yeah? I’ll show you that I forgive you, that I...love you.” Moving to Sherlock, John roughly grabbed him and dragged him up and close, looking into Sherlock’s face, his eyes. “I know you knew. You _must_ have. Everyone else bloody knew!” At Sherlock’s trembling, gaping twist of his mouth, John leaned closer. “And I know you...love me too.”

“I...”

“I should hate you,” John whispered, incapable of stopping now everything was out in the open. “For everything you’ve done, I should _hate_ you. I really should. It would be normal, if I hated you – But I don’t. Nothing has ever been normal with you, around you, with _us_. I don’t hate you, never have. I _love_ you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly, eyes flicking between John’s and then away as he did a bout of rapid blinking, “ _John_ \--”

“Sherlock, we’re about to die. _Don’t_ do this,” John told him, almost begging but not quite, even with the pain in his chest, in his core.

“But John, I _have_ to tell you—”

Surging forward, John clutched at Sherlock’s wet cheeks and kissed him, pushing in until it almost hurt, and followed after when Sherlock stumbled back, “I _love_ you. I love you, I love you, I love you...I was _broken_...without you. It _hurt_. I felt as if I had died with you. You left me alone,” he said in a hissing, emotional whisper. “I knew it then. I knew...when I saw...you...and your grave. I _knew_ that I...” Stroking his fingertips up the side of Sherlock’s face, John took an unsteady inhale and moved them to his hair, to his head, to where he’d been bleeding, where his skull had smashed against the pavement.

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered as his mouth twitched with a wince of guilt, “John...”

“You love me too. Despite everything. I _know_ you do. You have all the signs,” John told him, carding his fingers through the soft, thick curls at the back of his head, “I watched that video of you. The one you did for my birthday. I watched it, Sherlock, for days, weeks, months... _years_. I watched it on repeat. Just to hear you...just to...see you.”

“ _John_...”

“I dreamt of you. Thought of you. Sometimes I was sure I had _seen_ you in a crowd,” John carried on, gripping at the lapel of Sherlock’s coat to tug him an inch nearer so their noses bumped. “I was _so_ angry. I felt betrayed. But I don’t hate you and I forgive you. I _forgive_ you, Sherlock.”

Nodding, Sherlock slowly closed his eyes, “I’m sorry...”

“I know. I know that,” John replied, shifting his head to kiss him again, drowning in the sensation of the man’s lips against his own, the coiling of his curls around his fingers, the warmth of him, the feel of him. His heart almost hurt it was beating so fast, and he huffed in delight when Sherlock yielded and then returned the kiss, heady with a rush of desire, fulfilment and eager for more.

They broke for a second, lips barely apart, and then the next kiss was deeper, wetter, hotter and more passionate and John gripped a handful of Sherlock’s hair as the man swayed against him, long fingers and shaking hands just brushing at John’s sides. As the kiss got more frenzied, Sherlock’s legs buckled and John turned him, tripping against a seat and then pushing him up against a door with a low, gruff sound in his chest. God he wanted him. He wanted him so much. He loved him and wanted him so much it pained him to think about it. Like looking into the sun. God why did he have to have done this now? Why did it have to be bombs?

“Touch my face,” John husked, taking one of Sherlock’s hands to press into his cheek, turning to breathe against the palm and nose the gaps between his fingers. Why now?

“John...I _really_...need to say--”

John moved back to kiss him, keeping Sherlock’s hand against his face, and sighed shakily, “You don’t have to say anything.”

Sherlock huffed faintly, face flushed, “I... _really_ do,” he mumbled against John’s tingling lips, breath hotly rushing down his chin.

“You don’t.”

“I...do.”

“No.”

“... _Yes_.”

“ _No_.”

Gasping in pleasure when John pushed against him and focused his next, greedy, impatient, lustful kiss against his top lip, Sherlock clenched his eyes closed, “John...I... _really_ think...”

“ _Hush_ ,” John soothed, running his hands down Sherlock’s trembling frame to cling to his waist. “Just kiss me...please...Sherlock...” He shuddered when Sherlock made a strangled sound in his chest and kissed the detective again, and again, and again, loving every second of it. Every minute. It felt like it had gone on far longer than it should have.

After another squeeze of Sherlock and a returned peck, John slowed and paused, frowning. How long had it been? Surely the bomb would have gone off by now? Not that he wanted to know that. Leaning away, John looked at Sherlock, really looked at him. The man was grimacing guiltily, his eyes still closed. Staring, John released him, stepped back and aside, and looked down at the bomb, at the clock, and at the way it was flickering between 1:28 and 1:29. In disbelief, John continued to stare down at it, not turning when Sherlock stepped cautiously near his side. God, he hated bombs.

“Th-there’s a switch. An off switch. On the side. There’s...always an off switch,” Sherlock said, trying to snort with short laughter but failing to fully succeed as John clenched his jaw. “Terrorists can get into all sorts of problems unless there’s an off switch.”

“You...”

“I just wanted you to...to forgive me and I...I assumed that once you thought that--”

“... _utter_...”

Sherlock took a shaky step back, lifting a hand, the hand John had nuzzled, “It wasn’t meant to be like this. I only wanted you to forgive me. I knew you would, that you _did_ , I just needed you to know that yourself,” he said.

“You...” John moved toward him.

“John...I...just...” Sherlock gestured awkwardly. “At least we’re not dead! Th-that’s a plus. - And the things you said were...before the...before the--”

“Kissing,” John muttered.

“Yes...yes. They were nice...things. That you said. Before the--”

“Kissing.”

Sherlock nodded, “Yes...”

“...You...let me—No! You _made_ me go through all of that just so I would forgive you for _betraying_ me and _leaving_ me?” John asked, unsure what he was thinking or feeling, only that he wasn’t dead. They weren’t dead, they weren’t going to die this time, and he’d just kissed Sherlock.

“I... but I didn’t lie altogether. I’ve _absolutely_ no idea on how to turn any of these silly little lights off,” Sherlock said light-heatedly. He glanced away when John narrowed his eyes at him, and then swallowed, clearing his throat. As the silence descended between them, through the open door of the carriage, John became aware of voices echoing down the tunnel. Voices over a radio, a walkie-talkie. Then a flash of torch beams. Sherlock shifted. “Oh...and—”

“ _And_ you did call the police,” John finished for him.

“Yes. ‘Course I called the police,” Sherlock murmured, glancing at the three armed officers that were coming, torches on their rifles.

“I’m gonna kill you...” John whispered.

“Oh, please. Killing me – that’s so two years ago,” Sherlock tried jokingly, quirking his mouth. John looked at it, looked at his lips, at how swollen and wet they were from kissing, from kissing him, and then watched as Sherlock hesitated, turned, and walked to greet the police. Leaving John alone. Again. Alone and broken.


	2. Chapter 2

John hesitated down the corridor, looking between Sherlock, who was on the phone as he buttoned his jacket one-handed - probably on with his brother because Sherlock seemed smug - and the living room, where Mary was. Mary. Mary who he was meant to be asking to marry him. Mary who had helped him through so much. Mary who he loved. He loved her. Didn’t he? Yes. No. Yes.

John sighed quietly, heart aching, and continued on toward Sherlock with a lift of his head, trying to find the courage, the determination, to see it through. He needed to say something. They hadn’t talked since the carriage, since the stupid bomb with the stupid switch. It was horrible timing, of course, what with Mary so close. Mary who’d smiled at him, kissed his cheek, and clung warmly to his arm, the entire ride over. He’d had to lie to her, pretending things were fine, pretending he hadn’t admitted his love to his best friend who had just arisen from the dead, that he hadn’t held and kissed in a bloody train carriage full of bombs.

Just as John got within a few feet of the bedroom, Sherlock turned to him, a grin lifting his mouth. Definitely talking to his brother then, or teasing his brother. “Um. Sherlock?” The moment they locked gazes, John froze, anger, betrayal, and heartbreak rushing him again. Sherlock himself stiffened, eyes flickering and turning away, and John clenched his jaw. “Come on. You’ll have to go down. They want the story.”

“In a minute – John...”

“ _No_ ,” John interrupted with a shaky breath and a quick shake of his hand. “Don’t.”

Sherlock reached forward any way and snagged the hand before he had the chance to drop it and turn away, and John felt his heart stutter as Sherlock then pulled him a step closer, “This is _not_ what I wanted, John. I _really_...didn’t know that you’d—”

“ _What_?” John snarled quietly. “Didn’t know that finding myself facing death, facing _your_ death, _again_ , would promote that sort of reaction? - I thought we were going to _die_ , Sherlock. That I’d never get the chance to...” Adjusting his stance, John ripped his arm from Sherlock’s grasp and walked into the bedroom, shoving the infuriating man back and shutting the door to gather his thoughts. “You _must_ have known.”

“I _didn’t_ ,” Sherlock insisted, keeping his voice low.

“You know what’s funny? I still don’t hate you. _Still_!”

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” Sherlock said, gesticulating animatedly. “Or _do_ for that matter. I...you...we...”

“Forget it,” John told him, feeling sick. “Just...erase it from your mind or...whatever it is you do. I’ll pretend it never happened. Pretend I didn’t tell you what I wished I had told you before you jumped from a sodding roof right in front of me...”

“John...”

“It’s _fine_.”

“It’s _not_.”

John sighed sharply, “No. It’s not. But when _is_ it fine for us?” Looking at Sherlock for a long moment, John thought of how his lips felt, the palm of the man’s hand against his cheek, the warmth of his body. Alive. Alive and trembling and responsive. “You kissed me back.”

“...John.”

“Tell me. I want to hear you say it. I know it, but I want to hear it now. _Right now_. Tell me,” John demanded quietly. “ _Tell_ me, Sherlock.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’re a liar, but I’ll play along. I’ll pretend. For now.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and clenched his jaw, “What about Mary?”

“...Either way I need to talk to her. Whatever you choose - _we_ choose - I _will_ talk to her.”

“ _No_ , you don’t have to tell her. You don’t have to do this,” Sherlock argued. “You love her--”

“Not as much as I love _you_ ,” John growled.

“...You...have a future with her,” Sherlock added, eyes fixed on John’s face, a sorrowful, guilty and pained tightness to his own expression. “I...like her...”

John huffed shortly, “I know. She likes you too,” he said, glancing at the bedroom door and then sighing. “Tell me.”

“John...”

“ _Tell_ me, Sherlock.”

“I...John—”

John was pushing up against him before he knew what had happened, staring into Sherlock’s wide eyes, “ _Tell_ me!”

Sherlock grimaced and flicked his gaze from John to the door and back again, his lips trembling, eyelids fluttering, “I...” he breathed, swallowing with a shake of his head, and for a second, John felt dread claw at his insides, felt shame and grief and mortification tear at him, but then Sherlock lowered his head. “I love you...I do. How could I not?”

It washed over John like a hot blaze, erupting within him, at his centre, “Look at me...”

Exhaling in a rush, Sherlock scowled at the floor and then obeyed, “Listen--”

“No. _You_ listen,” John whispered. “I’m going to talk to Mary no matter what. I’m going to talk to her and break things off, hopefully amicably, and then I’m going to move back in here. With you again. To _be_ with you again.” Lifting his eyebrows, John watched and waited as Sherlock winced in reply, obviously trying to disagree or find another solution. There was none. “Nothing you say will change my mind. I’m not going to lie and act, what would be the point? It would be unfair. If you don’t want me back in the flat then, say it now.”

“John _please_...”

“ _Say it_ ,” John challenged and then nodded when Sherlock remained silent. “Right. Let’s...get this story out and...deal with things after. It’ll be a few days, I think, before it can be fully sorted. - Come on.” Opening the bedroom door again, John walked out, forcing a small smile on his face and shaking away his anxious buzz as he entered the living room, knowing Sherlock was right behind him.

Mary was sitting on the sofa and holding a glass of champagne, Mrs Hudson in a nearby chair and Greg in John’s chair, both of them also holding some champagne. From behind him, Sherlock popped the cork off a new bottle and walked over with it and a new glass, kneeling beside the coffee table to pour. John tried not to look at him. He wanted to. He’d always wanted to look and watch Sherlock.

“Oh, I’m really pleased, Mary. Have you set a date?” Mrs Hudson said, turning John’s stomach.

“Er, well we thought May,” Mary replied with a smile.

“ _Oh_! Spring wedding!”

“Yeah. Well, once we’ve _actually_ got engaged,” Mary said, glancing at John with a tinkle in her eye and her mouth attractively tilted up in amusement.

John tried not to glance aside, “Yeah.”

Mary turned a pointed look at Sherlock, “We were _interrupted_ last time.”

“Yeah,” John repeated, hoping to God his voice held steady, and watched, gut twisted, as Sherlock smiled at her. Quickly, to distract himself, John reached for and began swinging on his jacket.

“Well, I can’t wait,” Greg said, raising his glass in a toast, which John made sure he smiled to while Sherlock put the glass down he’d just filled and stood up, walking to the far window.

“You will be there, Sherlock?” Mary asked.

“Weddings – Not really my thing,” Sherlock murmured, and John was sure he was looking at him from the reflection of the window. Christ this was bad and extremely awkward. Was this what he truly wanted? Was he really going to leave Mary so quickly? Was he really going to pick Sherlock over her after what he’d done? John caught Sherlock’s expression in the window, letting the swell of intense affection rush through him at the retained eye contact. Yes. Yes he really was.

Thankfully, before Mary could reply to Sherlock’s refusal, the door opened and Molly popped her head in, “Hello, everyone.”

“Hey, Molly,” John said, moving a little closer to her but keeping Sherlock in the corner of his eyes as Molly pulled a man in with her, holding his hand. This was new. John felt slightly suspicious of a new fling, considering her last interest had been a psychopath playing dress-up.

She beamed, “This is Tom.”

John drew his gaze over to Tom and stared, almost looking away to look again, and then glanced at where Sherlock was still pretending to peer out of the window. The man looked as close to another Sherlock look-alike as you could get. It was ridiculous. Sad, ridiculous, and not something that he needed right at that moment. Two Sherlock’s would be disaster for his mental state. In fact, it unquestionably was a disaster for his mental state. It seemed Molly and him shared an infatuation. An obvious, unhealthy, dangerous infatuation.

“Tom, this is everyone.”

Tom smiled and even his smile seemed slightly similar to the detective’s own, “Hi.”

John couldn’t help staring now. He had it all. He was tall and lean, his hair curly and dark – though slightly shorter than Sherlock’s hair – with pale blue eyes and high cheekbones, wearing a dark coat with a turned up collar and a scarf, tied the almost exact same way as Sherlock tied his. Jesus Christ it was tipping onto the side of pathetic. Was he that pathetic? Probably. Definitely. Both he and Molly were a sorry state.

“Hi,” Greg replied, clearly seeing the resemblance and trying not to react.

“It’s _really_ nice to meet you all,” Tom said, his eyes landing on John in particular, as John still could not stop staring at him. It was uncanny. It was bizarre. It was so, so, so very sad. Why did it make John feel more guilty than he had been previously? “Hi.”

Looking him up and down, John forced a grin onto his face and tried to snap out of his blatant stupor, “Wow. Yeah, hi. I’m John,” he said, shaking the man’s hand, instantly making comparisons, and finding himself happily disappointed in the overall feel and grip to it. Tom’s hand was nothing like Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s hands were more elegant and artistic, were firm, coarse and soft in pleasing places, and lingered, inspected, tested when they touched John’s own. God that man’s hands were a wonder. “Good to meet you.” Unable to stop his gaze from being drawn to his Sherlock, to the real Sherlock, to the only Sherlock, to the man he wanted to touch again God damn it, he locked eyes with him as Sherlock turned around.

Sherlock visibly took a breath, “Ready?” he asked, addressing John and only John, which made something flare in him that he’d thought lost, that he’d missed. He had missed being the one Sherlock looked to and pestered and wanted.

“Ready.”

Tom turned to meet Sherlock when the detective turned a quick smile at Greg whilst walking past him, and when Sherlock lifted his eyes to finally catch sight of Tom for the first time, he stopped dead in shock. Tom was equally as dumbfounded, giving him a once-over from Sherlock’s feet to the top of his head. It nearly made John smirk in genuine amusement. At least they both knew it was weird too. John wondered if Tom would bring it up to Molly or keep it to himself.

“Champagne?” Greg asked, breaking the odd tension and trying to divert attention from the spectacle. He walked across the room behind them with a friendly lift of his eyebrows.

Molly nodded, evidently pretending to be ignorant of the situation as well, “Yes.”

With a slight drop of his jaw, Sherlock continued his gaping for another minute, then flicked his gaze toward John and John made sure to grin tightly, expectantly, until the man took the hint and held out his hand to Tom. Watching them shake hands was an odd experience to say the least. Glancing down at Molly briefly, Sherlock walked in-between the couple and out the door, probably aware of Tom turning to watch him go while Greg handed Molly a glass, but thankfully not reacting to it.

John shifted, already automatically going to follow, but stopped to take another look at Tom as he took a glass of champagne from Greg with a polite thanks. Still not quite able to take in some of similarities, as well as the huge differences between him and Sherlock, John finally headed out of the room and closed the door behind him, shutting out the eerie Tom, the smiling Mary, the friends that expected more of him. John shook all dragging thoughts aside, glaring down at his fisted hands, and walked to Sherlock’s side, as the man looped his scarf about him. John angled himself to catch his attention and pointed back toward the door.

“Did you, er...?” he started quietly, not able to finish.

“I’m not saying a word.”

John nodded momentarily, “No, best not,” he mumbled, eyeing up Sherlock’s striking profile as he looked down at how his scarf was tied, throwing up his hands with a sigh and an exasperated expression. John glanced back at the door again, ripping his focus from Sherlock’s face, his lips, and tried not to let the tension between them raise again. “I’m still waiting, you know.”

“...I already answered you, John. Do you _really_ want me to say it again? Here on the landing? What if—?”

“No! No, not _that_. Um. No. Just, why did they try and kill me? If they knew you were on to them, why go after _me_ – put _me_ in the bonfire?”

Picking up his coat, Sherlock shifted uneasily, “I don’t know. I don’t like not knowing,” he replied, trotting down the stairs.

John followed, “Yes you do know.”

“No - Unlike the nicely embellished fictions on your blog, John, real life is rarely so _neat_.”

John glared, “Yeah, I think I know that well enough by now, Sherlock. Considering the circumstances...”

Stopping at the bottom of the staircase, Sherlock slipped on his coat, looking up at John as he stopped a couple of steps up to keep some distance from them. For now. “I don’t know who was behind all this, but I will find out, I _promise_ you.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this.”

Sherlock looked away as he adjusted the coat on his shoulders, “Hm?”

“Being back. Being a hero again.”

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” Sherlock retorted.

“You’d have to be an idiot not to see it. You’ve missed it,” John said, incapable of stopping the grin that grew on his face.

Sherlock turned to face him, “Missed what?”

“Being Sherlock Holmes.”

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to _mean_ ,” Sherlock huffed, turning to walk down the hall and tug on his gloves.

John trailed after him, magnetised, like always, “Sherlock... you are gonna tell me how you did it? How you jumped off that building and survived?”

Sherlock paused, “You know my methods, John. I am known to be _indestructible_.”

“No, but seriously,” John hesitated and swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat, chest tight once more. “When you were dead, I went to your grave.”

“I should hope so,” Sherlock snorted light-heartedly.

“I made a little speech. I actually _spoke_ to you.”

Sherlock faced him once again, eyes bright yet soft with emotion, “I _know_. I was there.”

How he said the words made John stiffen, though he wasn’t angry, he was just tired, shaky, and curious, “I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead.”

“I heard you,” Sherlock told him gently, looking at John’s expression and smiling very faintly before he drew in a quick breath and went for the door. “Anyway, time to go and be Sherlock Holmes.”

“I wish you had told me you were always going to come back for me,” John whispered, giving Sherlock pause. “Left me some clue, a code, some message that--”

“I _did_ leave you a message. I told you my plan, John,” Sherlock replied. “The phone call _was_ my clue, my code, my message. I told you – but I also needed you to believe it. I needed you to believe it and be safe, John. The bereavement _had_ to be real. The grief _had_ to look authentic. You’re not a good enough actor to pull it off. They were watching and they would have _known_ and you would have been _killed_.”

John glowered and walked over, pulling Sherlock around, “After that then. You could have...sent me something. _Anything_!”

“ _No_. I couldn’t risk it. I went into hiding myself, I had no way of--”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” John seethed, trying to keep his voice down and pressing closer, watching as his hands smoothed up to fix Sherlock’s collar. “You underestimate me, Sherlock. I could have, _would have_ , done it for you. I’d have been good enough. _Made_ myself good enough.”

“You would have wanted to come with me--”

“ _Damn right_!” John stepped back with a sigh. “Just, next time, we go together or not at all, yeah? You need me as much as I need you. You’ve always said that I help you in one way or another. And I _have_ been in dire situations before. I have been under _tremendous_ pressure and carried on, during _many_ occasions. I am a professional when I need to be.” At Sherlock’s sigh and brief nod, John motioned to the door. “Go on then, Sherlock Holmes.”

Smiling firmly, Sherlock continued on to the door, hesitating at the coat rack, obviously noticing the deerstalker as he reached for it and pulled it over his curls, twisting it snugly into position. Only then did he open the door to meet the barrage of reporters who immediately gathered around him, taking photos and shouting questions. John breathed in, breathed in the sight of Sherlock, the knowledge of him, and the courage for what was to come, and closed the front door at his back to step up to the man’s side, making sure they brushed together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably do another chapter with them getting it together.  
> Sorry, not sorry Mary. Your time is up. Sherlock is back and you can't replace him. Ha!

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels me! 
> 
>  
> 
> [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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